Nightmare Street
by Spice of Life
Summary: Mac's afraid of the dark. [Rated for Child Abuse.]
1. Chapter 1

Nightmare Street

Aaand, for some odd reason, I am writing this. I have absolutely no idea why. HEAVENS TO BETSY, WHAT IS UNDER MY COMPUTER DESK….it's a cat. False alarm, just a cat…BUT IT WAS FURRY AND IT LICKED ME…anyway…I, at this point in time (June 7th, 7: 24 P.M—TODAY WAS MY LAST DAY OF SCHOOL, WH00T!) have absolutely _no _idea what the plot of this fic (Let alone the genres or section). So, bear with me here. I'll probably think it up on the way.

NEW (Postmark January 8th, 1:74 P.M—I have written the whole chapter now…yay!)

**Disclaimer (In song!):**:sings: I don't own it, don't want it _Kidding!_, never gonna' have it, can't sue me, 'cuz I have, nothing you would waaaaant…:breathes out: yes.

If you must know, the reason I started writing this is because I downloaded at least 30 new fonts for my computer, and they're all just so pretty-full I decided to name things by the title of the fonts….I was writing songs for them, but this one (Nightmare Street, 'tis awesome!) I felt like writing a fic for. And actually, only the title is in Nightmare Street Font…I'm typing this in Palatino Linotype…which for some reason amuses and amazes me. I'm amashed! Indeed I am…

Anyway, wh00t t00t…today was my last day of school, so I'm all happy and freaking about that and such…plus my boyfriend is busy and WON'T GET OFF THE DAMN PHONE TO TALK TO ME, so I am bored. Hehe. And now, here we are. Aren't you excited? Yes? Well, me either.

Whatever you do, PLEASE review! Hehe, that was catchy…things that rhyme amash me. Don't steal that word…I had it patented. 0o ANYWAY (God, I am so ADD-ish…), don't flame…or I will laugh. Hard. Long, hard, and unforgiving-ly-ish. Trust me, bwahaha!

:Roasts a marshmallow: Oh, what was I doing again?

…

"_I am not afraid of the dark. I am afraid of what lurks in it."_—Anonymous

"_We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy is when men are afraid of the light."_—Plato

"_What does not destroy me, makes me strong_."— Friedrich Nietzsche

"_Ultimately we know deeply that the other side of every fear is freedom_."—Merilyn Ferguson

"_When a man has quietly made up his mind that there is nothing he cannot endure, his fears leave him."_--Grove Patterson

…

"Turn on my nightlight?" A small voice asked, muffled from the layers of blankets thrown over his head.

"Oh, Mac." His mother rolled her eyes, "You don't need that stupid thing. You're old enough to sleep without a light."

Brown eyes grew huge, and he tightened his white-knuckled grip on his blankets, "But, mom…I'm afraid of the dark."

His mother sighed, brushing a few frizzy strands of brown hair out of her eyes. She tapped her foot impatiently—she didn't have time for this. She was already late, late, _late_. "There's nothing in here to be afraid of, sweetie. It's just your room."

Mac just nodded his head, knowing she wouldn't understand. "Night, mom."

She walked back over to his bed, and placed a quick kiss on his tear-stained cheek. A small bruise shone under his right eye, and she touched it gently. Mac winced. "Your dad's been drinking again?"

Mac sighed. He hated how she referred to him as 'his dad', and not 'her ex-husband'. He didn't call him dad—not in his head, at least. "No." He answered simply, looking down at the stained bedcovers.

She stared at him for a few seconds before nodding quietly and exiting the room. She was already late, and she had no idea where in god's name her car keys were. Somewhere in the tiny apartment house they lay…along with the haunting memories and broken promises.

'_I've got to get out of here_.' She thought, locating her keys sitting on top of the microwave, which sat in the middle of the small square table they ate on. _'I can't stand it.'_

And so she did as she had done many times before. She drove away, and away, and away…until she hit the end, and then she drove back. Another job she would be fired from, and another complain of "I'm freaking _hungry_, mom." from Terrence. She knew Mac felt it too—but he never complained.

But she couldn't leave them there, not when he came around sometimes. He never went after Terrence when he was drunk—the thirteen year old could easily punch him back. But Mac, the shy eight year old he was, would never think of hitting anyone.

And so she drove back, hoping his car wouldn't be there—if he still remembered how to _drive_ a car, that was. But his car wasn't in the lot, and neither was he. She exhaled a sigh of relief, and glanced at her watch. _'2:03 A.M.'_ it read in loud, bright numbers. Her boys would be asleep right now, sleeping safe in their own beds. _'God, I'm so tired…'_

She sighed again, pushing back more of her short brown hair. The ponytail she had once held it back with had been used to scare him off when he had come around earlier. She hadn't been home at the time, but had come home in time to see him ready to leave.

Remembering the Police's orders, she made a silent promise to herself to clean up the small apartment soon. One of the neighbors had finally called the cops on him a few weeks back, when he had gone through all the apartment doors banging on them and making a fuss, saying he was looking for his '_girl_'.

His '_girl_', as he had referred to her as, opened up their apartment door, and had proceeded to throw their only china plates at him—the ones her parents had gotten for their wedding. Thankful—or maybe not—for her bad aim, the only thing she managed to do was keep him out of the apartment room for the time being. Until the cops came, however. They had told her if she didn't clean up the apartment, Child Services would take Mac and Terrence into their own hands.

Although it would be better for them, she knew, she couldn't bear to lose them. She knew she was never home—she worked 2 jobs just to make ends meet—and even then the ends didn't exactly come together. But they were all she had—besides a drunken ex-husband who still visited every now and then, and left reminders of how it was before he had left.

Slipping off her shoes and kicking them inside, she shut and locked the door, throwing her keys on the microwave again. Silently, she moved towards Mac's closet-sized bedroom. She opened the door with a silent squeak, and peered inside. He had, apparently, turned on his night light, which burned dimly on his bed stand. The covers were drawn over his head, and she could see his tiny hands clenching onto the sheets tightly. He was squirming about, and the covers were damp from where he had begun to sweat. He was muttering incomprehensibly, and when she moved closer, she heard an unmistakable, "Please…don't hurt me…" uttered from his mouth. She wished he didn't have those dreams.

Sighing again, she backed out of the room and once again closed the door. Skipping over her older son's room, she made her way slowly into her own bedroom. Easing off her jacket, she lay down into the bed, not even bothering to take off her work clothes. She was far too tired and exhausted.

Glancing around the room, she could feel the anger and hate penetrating through the walls. This had once been his room. You can remove the problem, but you can never erase the past.

…

Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

Nightmare Street

And, we meet again! I am incredibly BORED already, and I've only been out of school for one day!

Anyway, I am all happy now, because last night I stuck an earring through one of my holes that supposedly closed 4 years ago…and it went through! So now I have 4 earlobe piercings in one ear, and 3 in the other, Hehe. I feel so lopsided…

Anyway—

I honestly don't feel like waiting to write this chapter, 'cuz I have NOTHING BETTER TO DO, so…here we are. Hello.

**Disclaimer:** Same as last time, Hehe. Don't own it, don't even _partially_ own it—and never gonna' have it. I WISH:Cries:

I know, I have personally never heard of anyone with the last name _'Kazoo' _before, tee hee. But, now you have. And I have no idea where I got the name 'Brannie' from, Hehe. But it's pronounced Bran-ee.

There's gonna' be some swearing going on as well. But it should be PG-13 appropriate I guess, lol.

…

Chapter 2

…

"Name tag, name tag…where the_ hell_ is it?" She mumbled to herself, searching feverishly through her purse. _'Aha.'_, she smiled in triumph as she pulled it out, and pinned it onto her white shirt. _'Brannie Kazoo'_, it read in black print. Straightening it out before glancing at the clock, '_Shit, I'm late!',_ she hurried out the door and slammed it shut.

…

Mac awoke at a quarter past ten. Slowly clambering out of bed, he stretched out his tiny limbs before heading out the door and into the bathroom. Once reaching his destination, he reached into the cabinet. Pulling out a small bottle of Advil, he took out a tiny pill, and swallowed it. Man, he had a headache. He glanced in the mirror at his right eye, which was puffy and swollen.

Glancing at the clock in the living room, he figured he would head out to Foster's. After a thorough check to make sure his mother was gone and his brother still asleep (which was confirmed by the animal-like snoring emitting from the direction of his room), Mac headed out the door. It was a few blocks away, but he didn't mind the walk. It was a relatively nice day out, a good breeze, not too humid. The sky looked a little gray and cloudy however, and he hoped it waited until after he left Foster's to rain. He really wasn't anticipating walking home with it pouring outside—he hadn't even thought to bring a jacket.

Walking up the steps to the old mansion, he heard yelling inside. It sounded like Frankie and Mr. Herriman—and it most likely was. Timidly, and bracing himself for whatever was going on inside, he knocked on the door. A few moments later, Frankie's obviously annoyed face appeared in the doorway, "Yeah?"

Noticing who it was, her face brightened up a bit, "Oh, hey Mac. Come on in…why did you knock anyway?"

"Uh, hey. Well, I heard you and Mr. Herriman fighting, and I didn't want to…uh, interrupt." Mac said, carefully shielding the wound beneath his right eye.

Frankie smiled, "Well, it's over Anyway. Nothing big—the stupid rabbit just was complaining about the friends overeating." She sighed, "He's complaining that my meals aren't healthy enough! Whatever." She mumbled, walking off still grumbling to herself.

Mac laughed, Frankie and Mr. Herriman never seemed to enjoy each other's company. Speaking of company…where was Bloo? Mac walked into the living room, where Wilt and Eduardo were sitting on the couch watching TV. Noticing a new presence in the room, Wilt looked up. "Oh, hey Mac!" He greeted warmly, his trademark smile spread across his face, "Do you want to watch some TV with us?"

"Hey Wilt, hey Eduardo. No thanks; I'm uh…looking for Bloo. Have you seen him anywhere?" Mac asked, smiling as Eduardo waved a greeting at him.

"Sorry Mac, but I haven't seen him since I got up this morning." Wilt answered, "But he might still be up in our room."

"Sì, I think I saw him there earlier." Eduardo answered, "He was writing something."

Mac headed towards the stairs, turning back around to shout out a "Thanks!" before heading upstairs to find his Imaginary Friend. The door to Bloo, Wilt, Eduardo, and Coco's room was closed, so he paused at it and listened for a moment before deciding it was safe to enter. "Bloo?" he asked, opening it slightly and peeking inside, "You in here?"

And suddenly he was pulled entirely into the room, and engulfed in a hug from his best friend. "Hey kiddo! I was wondering when you'd show up! You'll never believe what I thought up—guess, guess!"

"Uh, a piece of paper?" Mac asked, laughing as his friend took away the paper he had shoved in his face. He sat down on the bed as Bloo crashed on it as well, once again shoving the paper in his face.

"No way, it's much better then a stupid piece of paper! Ladies and gentlemen—and Mac, may I present to you…"

"_How to Tale Over the World_?" Mac read from the paper, the title in bold underlined block letters, "What?"

"It's a guide on how to take over the world!" Bloo yelled excitedly, ripping the paper out of Mac's grasp, "We can rule the world!"

A vision of himself in robes surrounded by a burning city (and maybe Terrence, Mr. Herriman, and the Duchess waiting on his every whim) came into Bloo's head, which caused him to let out a rather evil laugh.

"Whoa, Bloo…calm down." Mac advised, laughing at his friend's idea. "I don't think taking over the world is such a great idea."

"What! You don't want the riches—the fame—the…hey, bud, what's wrong with your eye?" Bloo asked suddenly, and Mac's hand went to his face. He had forgotten to cover it.

"Uh, Terrence." Mac replied instantly, and smiled faintly as Bloo accepted his excuse and continued talking. He never noticed Frankie watching them, a small frown on her face.

…

Shorter chapter this time, but oh well…I am bored still.

Thanks for the great reviews guys, keep 'em coming!


	3. Chapter 3

Nightmare Street

I LOVE NY! I just got back from New York at 3:00 a.m. Friday morning, lol. I'm reeeally tired, but…whatever. Figured I'd write this, thanks for all the lovely reviews! You guys rock!

…

Chapter 3

…

Mac sighed, and checked his watch. _'5:03'_, it read, which meant he was already three minutes late from when he was _supposed_ to be home, which was _supposed_ to be when dinner was _supposed_ to be ready, which meant it wouldn't be until he came home. Because what was _supposed_ to be never was. This meant, of course, that he had to make dinner again. If there was any food, that was.

He hurried up his walk into a jog, glancing every few second at his watch. _'Slow motion, slow motion! This would be a good time to go into slow motion!'_ But his watch apparently did not agree, and the seconds kept slipping by. Hearing a deep rumble, he peered upward. Thunder. Joy.

And all at once, he was soaked. "Why, why rain?" He asked the sky, before realizing it must look rather weird for him to be talking to it. Not that there was anyone else on the streets—it was pouring down raining after all. If he was old enough he figured this would be a pretty good time to add in a few curses.

And finally, he could spot the apartment. He hated that apartment, but it was better then the time they hadn't been able to pay for their old one and were homeless for a few days. He surveyed the apartment, taking in the height—6 stories, he lived on the 3rd floor—and the parking lot, complete with a beat-up old navy blue ford pickup. He knew that truck all too well.

He checked his watch. _'5:14'_. He was fourteen minutes late…and his dad was apparently visiting.

And it was still raining.

'_Sing a happy, happy, happy, happy, happy, happy song…'_He repeated in his mind quietly, walking into the building and up the stairs. Before he knew it, he was facing his front door. Door number 8, it read, the once shiny number dull and scratched. Screaming could be heard from inside, and someone was definitely throwing something.

He paused in the doorway, debating going in. He _was_ already—he checked his watch again—16 minutes late. As soon as he put his hand on the doorknob, however, the creak of an opening door could be heard to right of him. His neighbor, Elsa Sheinkopft, peered out at him.

"Mac, honey, don't you be going in there." She said, her glasses sliding down her nose. She stopped to push them back up, "Want me to call the police?"

Mac shook his head no, "I've got to go in, and I'm already late." He headed back towards his door when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, sweetie, you can stay over here until he's gone. I don't want you going in there while they're fighting." She smiled at him, and in an instant Mac wished she had been his mom. How he longed for a smile like that…one that told him he was loved, that someone cared if he lived or died. He knew his real mother felt like that for him—but she never showed it.

"I can't, thanks for the offer Mrs. Sheinkopft." Mac stretched a smile across his face, "I've got to make dinner, and make sure they're not making too big of a mess."

A sigh left Mrs. Sheinkopft's lips as she nodded her head, her pale blonde hair falling over her shoulders. "You just be careful, honey. And if you need anything, you come right over here, okay? I'm telling you, if I hear you or your brother screamin', I'm going right over to the phone and calling 9-1-1." She put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. She had lived in that same apartment building for 10 years….and she remembered the day they had moved in. She had kindly introduced herself, and had at once fallen for the cute little 5 year old with the deep brown eyes—eyes that knew more then they should, and witnessed more then many would ever know. And now, as she gazed into those same eyes three years later, she wondered how someone as innocent as him could remain unchanged throughout all the years.

Mac smiled faintly, and gave her a little wave of a goodbye. He put his fingers on the cold doorknob, and pushed in slightly. And all at once, everything came to life. His brain registered an object flying at him, and he quickly ducked. He looked behind him to where a glass vase lay shattered on the porch. He shoved it aside with the heel of his shoe, and closed the door.

He took in the room, disheveled—with silverware, pots and pans, and their only glasses (which were shattered into about a million pieces) strewn amongst the floor. A few tomatoes had apparently been used as artillery, and were splattered on the walls and tiles of the floor.

"Mac, 'ol buddy." His dad slurred, limping over to him. His shirt was wrinkled and stained, and it looked like his mom had hit him pretty good with something purple on his pants pocket. "How about we…" He hiccupped, and then grabbed a hold of Mac's shoulder, "Get outta' here…and we let…we let your…bitch…your bitchy mom…"

"Shut the hell up!" Mac looked over to see his mother, still in her work clothes, with a pan raised over her head. She looked rather crazed, her hair in a messy bun, her eyes wide. "I said you leave right now, you hear? And don't you come back again!"

"Aww, Bran, you know you wanted me…you wanted me back!" He smiled, dropping Mac on the ground and attempting to slide over to her.

She raised the pot even higher, as if daring him to come any closer. "I'll call the cops on you! I'll get a restraining order, and then they can throw your drunken ass in jail!"

"That's what you said…hic, last time!" He shouted back at her, "And besides…I'm n-not even drunk!"

It was an obvious lie, but his mother's face softened. "Really?"

"Yep…s-sober for…a…for a couple a' days now." He replied, and the pan lowered down to the table.

Mac stared in disbelief—how could anyone believe such an obvious lie? But he kept quiet, actually glad for the fact that his dad was being rather nice.

"Yep…but I got kicked outta' my place." His dad said, and then put on a dramatic sad face, "Think I could stay here for a bit? Just fer one night?"

"Oh, I don't know…"

"C'mon, babe…it'll be just like old times!" He said happily, and from the very moment Brannie nodded her head, Mac knew something was going to happen.

And there was no possible way that '_something_' could be good.

…

Please review, me peeps! Hehehe…peeps…


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